Dust to Ashes
 
My Dad was always out-of-doors,
gardening in green gumboots.
He loved the rain.
 
"It makes things grow." he told me
when I was too young to know,
too green to question. I nodded wisely.
 
We stand at my father's graveside,
the funeral is ten days gone.
My mother shakes.
 
The vicar holds him in a small brown box
while the sextant digs a fourteen-inch-square hole.
The delay fills the air with embarrassment and birdsong.
 
"The soil's dry for this time of year."
my gardener brother says.
"Dry as bones." the vicar agrees.
 
My mother shakes again.
This time, with grief or giggles,
I cannot say. I squeeze her hand, limp, moist.
 
"Dust to dust." the vicar intones,
but you were more than dust.
'Damp to damp.' would be more apt.
 
"Ashes to ashes." the vicar drones on,
but you were more than ashes.
'Mud to mud.' would be better.
 
Why so dry in his rehearsed solemnity?
Is he afraid my father might get wet?

My Dad loved the rain.